Wanted to and never did
by Sinattea
Summary: Post-ReichenFall. After Sherlock's death, Harry looked for John trying to solace him, but she only made things worse. Later a drunk John visited Sherlock's grave to tell him all the things he wanted to yet never did. What John didn't know is that Sherlock was actually listening, even the part when he said "I loved you... I love you still". - - - 1: John. 2: Sherlock. 3: JOHNLOCK.
1. What he wanted to say and never did

**"Wanted to and never did"**

A short story about Johnlock.

By: Sinattea.

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_Note:_ Honey, I'm holme! This time totally obsessed with Johnlock! This fic popped into my head after I gave myself my Snoggletog present (aka Christmas present, the fans of HTTYD will understand) which was watching the finale of Sherlock's season 2. Damn, I cried and screamed so much while watching that…

So I wanted to play a little bit with the idea of how could Sherlock and John get together now that Sherlock is… well, "officially" dead.

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- Dialogue - description -. Dialogue continues. (Works pretty much as the quotation marks)

"Thoughts". (Most of the times, if it refers to something spoken out loud I'll tell. Spanish format, because english is not my mother tongue)

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Read, enjoy and REVIEW!

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**Chapter 1: What he wanted to say and never did.**

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London wasn't the same without him. England wasn't the same without him.

John Watson was once again at the point where it all started: the long sleepless nights at the small old room he lived in when he returned from the war. Except that now he lost his sleep because of a different reason: Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't help but see Sherlock falling to his death every time he closed his eyes, and that vision had him all shocked.

His life wasn't the same without Sherlock. He missed him. He needed him. And he didn't understand why Sherlock had done it.

John knew Sherlock wasn't a fraud of any type. He knew him too well to doubt; even when, for five meaningless seconds, he had doubted at that reporter's house, when "Richard Brook" crossed the door.

Sherlock Holmes was real. All of him had been real. His life, his death…

Again, the terrible vision. John opened his eyes. He wasn't sleeping anyway, and he could think just as well watching his small apartment's ceiling.

"Why did you do it Sherlock?" he thought. He's asked himself that every day since then. Why did Sherlock lie to him in his last minute? Why did Sherlock choose him to be the one who heard his last words? Why did Sherlock…?

John's cell phone rang for the millionth time: a text message.

_ I know you are sad. I really do._

_ I want to help._

_ I'm better now, I promise I can help._

_ Let's meet._

_ - - - Harry._

John read the message and threw the cell phone away. Harry had been sending him tons of those lately. She probably learned about Sherlock's dead on the TV, she couldn't have read the papers because most of times she was too drunk to be capable of reading. But she said she'd been in rehab, she'd been taking therapy, she was better now.

John didn't believe her anymore.

And yet there she was, texting him all worried as a true sister would do. Harry knew John had lost someone very important in his life, and her interest in helping her brother was genuine.

Problem is John wasn't sure he could be helped. He'd lost too much.

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A month after Sherlock's death, John arrived home after a tiring session with his therapist, only to find a more tiring surprise: Harry. She was sitting on the floor right in front of his door, wearing an old coat and flat shoes that would fit a pajama better. Her messy hair was hidden beneath a dusty old cap. Yeah, Harry's appearance had met better days (days of classy high-heeled shoes and fancy dresses), but at least there was something good in her pale face: she looked sober.

In the second she saw John she stood up fast as lightning, proving she was sober because she didn't lose her balance.

- Hi, John – she said. Her voice sounded dry.

- Harriet. What are you doing here?

- You didn't reply my messages, and I wanted to see you.

"But I don't want to see you" thought John. He didn't need to pronounce the words anyway, his cold eyes were more than enough.

- Good evening – he said, monotone, and then tried to slip into his apartment, but Harry didn't let him.

- John, please. Give me a chance. I've been sober for five months now, and I believe that I'm now capable of giving you some support with all this thing about Sherl- - -

- Don't talk of him – said John. He didn't talk about Sherlock to anyone. The sessions with Ella had now turned into a very complex "twenty-questions" sort of game: she asked, John said yes or no, and then she'd ask again. Yet John felt, for the first time in years, that he wanted to talk to Harry; at least he wanted to guide her conversation so she didn't touch that particular sensitive string of him -. You look fatal, Harriet.

- It's the abstinence; my therapist says it's normal. Part of the process. Do you wanna go out?

- What for?

- To get a drin- - -a coffee…

John frowned and turned his back at Harry, focusing again on his keys and his lock. Harry grabbed his arm.

- It's not like that… You see, my therapist will be there, he drove me here actually, he thinks it would be good for me to be at a place where they sell… well, alcohol, and not to buy a thing. He says it's a test for my strength of will.

John stared at Harriet for a second, noticing she wasn't very far from stuttering when speaking. Harry stuttering, abstinence… That made sense.

- And I – proceeded Harry - thought you could be there so I could prove to you that I don't drink anymore. That's five months, John. I've been preparing this for you and Clara for five months. Please.

Maybe it was because John was depressed, maybe he just wanted to talk to someone who was suffering as much as him. John never knew for sure why, but he accepted Harry's invitation, and accompanied her and her therapist to a pub.

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Harry's therapist sat at a different table, not very far, to give the siblings a bit of privacy.

At the beginning everything was uncomfortable and quiet, both of them staring into different directions, but John felt open to chat after the third time the waiter went to their table to take their orders and Harry said she wouldn't take anything.

- But if you want something, I'll pay. Let me invite you dinner this time – she said.

- Are you sure you want to do that? I don't want dinner, I just want… a beer.

Harry swallowed, closing her eyes, and then turned to the waiter.

- Bring him a beer. I just want a glass of water – she pronounced every word separately, as if they were different sentences. She was really doing an effort.

The waiter nodded and walked away, before Harry called him again "Wait!" sounding a little bit desperate.

- Ice – she said, then talked to John -. Five months – she repeated, emphasizing the count with her stretched out fingers.

If you have that touching moment plus a pair of beers, plus difficult times, plus a family reencounter, you are likely to get the hugest catharsis ever.

John didn't know how they came to that, but before he realized it he and Harry were talking as if they'd been best friends all of their lives. Harry told her how hard the rehab was for her, but she was ready to do any sacrifice to bring back those she loved. "And that includes you, John". And John… John talked about the war, about the bad days, and, just a little bit, about Sherlock Holmes.

- You know? When Clara and I divorced I felt the world was coming to an end… I know what it is like to lose someone you love, John.

- That's an entirely different matter, Harriet – he looked away and took a sip from his beer. His sister looked at him almost envious, but rapidly regained composure.

- I'm so sorry, Johnny – Harry continued, almost crying -. I know he was dear to you.

- How can you know that?

- I see it in your eyes. I'm not drunk anymore, honey…

John didn't answer. He simply called the waiter once again and ordered another beer for him and another glass of water for his sister.

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Hours later Harry's therapist decided it was time for her to go home. He offered John a ride, because he wasn't in the best conditions, but John politely refused and got himself a taxi. Taxis… He couldn't help but feel terribly melancholic. And he wanted to cry. Harry had driven him to the edge of emotional sanity, and now he felt as crying or dying.

- Where to, Mr.? – the driver asked twice before John answered:

- The cemetery.

Minutes later a drunk John Watson was standing in front of Sherlock Holmes' grave.

- Hi – he said, and waited a lot before speaking again, as if he'd been waiting for a reply -. You know, I've been thinking a lot. About you, about us… I believe I haven't told you that I don't understand why you did _this_. And you know what? I _don't_! There you go: I don't understand it!

John didn't notice it, but he was doing this exaggerated mimic with his hands, finally expressing himself not only through his words, but through his entire body as well. If Ella had been there, she'd feel either proud of John's outburst or jealous because she didn't get him to do that during a session. Of course in that moment John was thinking of everything but his therapist.

- There are lots of things I didn't tell you, Sherlock – he went on -. Like…like… That thing! The thing you did with your eyes, when you looked at me with that "we-both-know-what's-really-going-on-here" face, even when you knew I didn't know. I hated that look. And you know what else I hated? I hated your…obsession with boredom. I mean, come on Sherlock! People don't shoot at walls because they're _bored_! And they don't stab pigs with a harpoon either. It's not natural! …And what about the corpses in the fridge? A head, Sherlock? A _head_? I'll never get why you opposed so much to the simple fact of keeping food in the fridge… No, wait, I get it now: normal people keep food in fridges and that's _boring_. Oh, yeah, and you couldn't be bored…

Why was John this upset? Why did he feel this hurt? Maybe Harry was right, maybe he was now experiencing the devastating feeling of loosing someone you love. John would figure out as he kept yelling to Sherlock's tomb.

- And that other thing! Why did you have to send me away every time you wanted to think? Were my thoughts that annoying for you? Sending me away, leaving me behind, not noticing when I was gone, doing things alone and planning plans of your own… Why did you do all that? Weren't we supposed to be a _team_? We were a team Sherlock! You knew that! You were just too locked in your mind palace to accept it. And I _hated_ that. I hated _you_ every time you did _that_… You know what that's called? It's arrogance, Sherlock! Arrogance!

John was screaming louder by the second, for the catharsis was real and he was finally letting out all the mixed feelings he'd been sinking in since the death of Sherlock. Lucky him it was late and the cemetery was empty, except for the dead, of course.

- And you know what else I hated? That thing with the coat! That thing with your cheekbones and your coat collar when you wanted to look mysterious…! No, wait… – John suddenly quit shouting to start talking in regular voice - I actually liked that… And the hat, I liked how upset you went with all those pictures of you wearing the hat. Yes, the hat was stupid, but you made it look good, if you want to know… And the deductions… I liked how you could decipher a life-time by a mere look at a person. That was fascinating. Extraordinary, actually. I told you that, didn't I? …There were plenty of things I did like about you, Sherlock… Why? Why you had to kill yourself like that? Why lie to me, Sherlock? WHY?!

At that point John screamed again at the top of his longs, and then fell to his knees before Sherlock's tomb, his hand reaching to touch the black, cold marble. Now he was crying, quietly, like any man who doesn't want to show his emotions would cry.

- I'll never understand. You weren't a fraud, Sherlock. You were _real_… You know? My life was never exciting or anything of the sort, it was all a routine. Even at Afghanistan, everything felt as a routine. And then you came, and you just changed my life forever. Well, changing is not accurate, you kind of twisted and blended and… Well, I think you get that even if I don't say it. You always knew how I was feeling…I think I'm the only one you ever got to know how he was feeling, even if you liked pretending emotions were some sort of mistake. They're not that complex, you knew that, maybe you just didn't want the world to know you were human. I asked myself that, sometimes, if you were human. I now know you ar- - -were… Oh, Sherlock...

John sighed heavily and held his head with both hands, trying to diminish the dizziness taking over him. But he wasn't finished, not yet. He had a lot of things to say, and he would even if it was the last thing he ever did.

- I miss you, nothing is the same without you. I have…I have never felt so lonely. And you know what? I just talked to Harriet today, for the first time in years, and I don't feel better. Not at all… I miss the life we had, what _we_ had: our…friendship. It meant a lot to me, and I like to think it meant for you too… And all this feeling, all this…confusion I can't get over. You died and I felt the world would end, I still expect it will, soon. And it's not natural to feel so empty without a person, unless… Well, unless…

John went silent, feeling queer and uncomfortable. Maybe his face was even reddening a bit.

- You won't make me say it, will you? – no response came from the grave. John sighed, nervous - All right, you win, of course it's not like anything will change if I say it… I… I…

Oh, gods, John couldn't make himself do it. It was overwhelming. For a second a part of his mind thought he'd rather have a gun aiming at his head, once again. "Crying or dying… Damn you, Harry!" he reminded. Now or never.

- Alright… I loved you, Sherlock… I love you still… And it's just that kind of love you were always so afraid of. So, say it: I'm weak, I'm just a huge ordinary person making a huge ordinary mistake… But, of course you won't say anything…

Only then John realized he was drunk and talking to a marble grave. He felt pathetic. He felt sad. Above all he felt lonely, and empty…

Shaking his head trying to regain a bit of sanity or composure or whatever, John stood up, biting his lips to keep himself from saying more stupidities. Thank god the dead people do know how to keep a secret.

Hiding his bare hands in his pockets to keep them warm, John turned around and walked away from Sherlock's tomb. He still wanted to cry, but at least now he could control himself. After all, the sudden confession to Sherlock had helped. Just a bit.

Now he could feel the dizziness stronger than ever, and every step was a challenge because he was losing his balance. Yay… the beers were finally knocking him off. "I didn't even drink that much" he thought.

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And then, a shadow came from behind a tree, just a few steps away from John. He was way too depressed to suspect, so he just ignored the figure, thinking it might be another lonely person crying at a tomb. He kept walking away.

- No! Wait! JOHN!

Someone reached out for John, grabbed his arm and forced him to turn around. And John Watson found himself face to face with the last person he expected to see, who also was, ironically, the only one he desperately wanted to see.

- Sherlock?!

It was a dream, a hallucination. It couldn't be real.

Feeling confused and shocked as he'd ever felt, John passed out.

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**_Another Note:_** Yes, John! YES! He is alive! When I watched the episode I swear that tiny second when we see Sherlock at the end was the only thing that stopped my tears. I would be terribly depressed still if not for that.

So, how you liked the fic? I personally relish on the idea of having John drunk, confused and confessing. I'm glad with what I wrote, actually.

This isn't, however, the long story with a complex plot I usually try. It's pretty much some sort of unnaturally long one-shot. Anyway I believe I did manage to stay IC, just a decent bit (if you don't think so, please burst my bubble in a kind way, will you?).

Sherlock shows up in next chapter. Yay!

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And please** review if you believe in Sherlock Holmes**. I'm addicted to reviews.


	2. What he wanted to deduce and never did

**"Wanted to and never did"**

A short story about Johnlock.

By: Sinattea.

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_Note:_ So... here is chapter two, and as I promised, Sherlock is back!

And one tiny warning: the reason for my specific use of both -hyphen- and "quotation marks" is because I'm mexican and this is the spanish writing format. I'm just so used to it I haven't been successful in trying the english writing format, sorry. :-)

Anyway... Read, enjoy, REVIEW!

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**Chapter 2: What he wanted to deduce and never did.**

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When John woke up he found out two things:

1.- He hadn't been that drunk from the very beginning, because he didn't even have a hangover. Probably his pain was what got him in such a deplorable condition.

2.- He was currently laying down on a sofa at 221B Baker Street.

Well, make it three things, because as soon as he opened his eyes and took a look around he discovered Sherlock was there, watching after him.

"Are you real?" John felt tempted to ask, but didn't have to. Sherlock was walking back and fro, holding his violin and doing a thorough examination of its state. Of course he was real. The scarf, the long coat, his black curly hair and amazing blue eyes, all of him had to be real. There was no way John's mind could achieve such a perfect impression of Sherlock Holmes, was there?

- I guess I have a thing or two to explain… – Sherlock said.

- You're not dead – John interrupted, thousands of thoughts exploding in his dead, remarking the "Sherlock is alive" and the "He brought me here" thoughts. Oh, and of course the unending list of swearing, curses and many other blasphemies that came to his head and threatened to come out through his mouth as well.

- No, I'm not. Jim Moriarty is.

- How is it you are not dead? – John felt his mouth dry and his hands were getting sweaty. If it was a hallucination, it really was the most realistic one he'd ever had.

- Well, you asked me not to be. You even said _please_.

- Y-you were at the cemetery that day?

- I've been following you for a while. To make sure you are fine – said Sherlock, now standing at the kitchen, violin in hand. He'd been avoiding John's eyes.

- _I'm not fine!_ I believed you were dead! I watched you di- - -! – John stopped abruptly. He didn't want to finish the sentence and break the spell. Being there at his old flat with his old mate felt pretty much like a dream, like a good dream he didn't want to wake up from.

Both Sherlock and John sank in awkward silence, until John realized something.

- You said you've been following me – though John attempted to make it sound as a question, it didn't. He then felt surprised of how easily he forgot the list of swearing.

- Yes.

- All the time?

- Yes.

- You brought me here from the cemetery.

- Yes. I followed you from the pub. So that's what Harry looks like? – Sherlock tried, uselessly, to stop John from asking his next question. Useless indeed, he already knew John would ask.

- …And how much did you listen at the cemetery? – John was drowning in embarrassment.

- All of it.

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John's mind rapidly moved from the "Sherlock is not dead" shock to the more urgent and relevant fact that Sherlock had heard him pronounce something very similar to a love confession. The swearing, had he felt like still shouting it, would fit the moment perfectly.

- I'm not gay – was John's immediate and unconscious reply.

- Harry thinks you are – said Sherlock, faking very convincingly a worriless expression, focusing on his violin.

- Harry is; she thinks everyone should be as well.

- Mrs. Hudson thinks you are.

- Well, she- - -

- Your therapist, Lestrade, your ex-girlfriends, even Mycroft, they all think you are. They've told you so.

- But that doesn't mean- - -

- Question is: do _you_ think you _are_? – inquired Sherlock.

John remained silent a couple seconds, incapable of thinking a good response to it.

- What am I supposed to answer? It's hard to think of it properly when you have everyone around suggesting you are – John was doing his best to stay relaxed.

- And will you let others determine so? John, people don't know how to run their own lives, what makes you think they'll know how to run yours?

- Well, I never believed them – said John -. I mean, all the people insinuating there was something going on between us. It was just a huge "no" inside my head. I mean I'm straight, but I guess… Well, what do _you_ think? Maybe if _you_ had told me that, I would've really started to doubt myself.

- Science of deduction never fails, John – stated Sherlock.

- Yeah, learned that already. So, you…? You think I am…?

- _Think_? I _know_, John. It's blatantly obvious, actually. I'm surprised how everyone could see it except you and the women you dated.

- Why didn't you tell me what you think earlier? – John's eyes widened as he went mad.

- What for, John? Out of all the people in London who could tell you that, I'm the last one you'd like to hear it from. You'd just think I'm being _arrogant_…

Sherlock kept revising his violin, trying the strings and making sure they were still in tune. John felt like an utter idiot.

- So, you heard what I said at the cemetery – he said, trying to sound calmed, which he wasn't at all.

- Every single word of it, John – Sherlock repeated.

- And you have nothing to say about it?

At that second, Sherlock kind of froze on the spot, simply observing the emptiness before him. He stopped revising his violin, he actually just left in on the kitchen's table, all silent, and walked towards John without meeting his eyes.

- I wouldn't know what to say – he confessed in low voice after a while.

- Ok… – John was certainly going through the most awkward moment in his life. He never thought he'd feel like a teenager again, wishing the earth would quake and eat him alive. He really wanted to disappear - You could… you could deduce something; you always know what to say when it comes to that.

Sherlock's reply came faster than John expected.

- How did I know you weren't precisely straight? Well, John, it's simple, you don't have to be a genius; of course I am and that's why it only took me five minutes to figure it out. Well, five minutes it's just a manner of speaking, you know I did it in much less time. First of all, the dinner, in our first case. At the restaurant it was implied that you and I were somehow emotionally involved with each other. Straight people get upset with such things, natural reaction; they feel offended and make the proper corrections as soon as possible. You, on the other hand, didn't object as much, you even made a talking subject out of it. Most people say "yes" or "no" and change the topic, you started questioning me about my sexuality and mentally made a list of all the reasons why you were undeniably straight, which you would have gladly exposed if we hadn't persecuted that taxi. People talk too much when they lie, they give unnecessary details, they insist in talking about the same over and over again until they're sure the other person believed them. Denial is a way of lying, of course, I lie you tell to yourself.

Sherlock was talking all sped up, with that heavy accent of his, just the way he talks when he's applying his precious deduction science. John used to think that specific thing about Sherlock was extraordinary, but only when applied to others. "Can anybody die from embarrassment?" he thought; he felt about to do so.

And Sherlock just kept talking, maybe a little faster than usual.

- Besides, we have all the evidence your multiple ex-girlfriends constitute. John, you are a man of honor, with a high moral and a deep sense of responsibility. You are a man of commitment, which is why I found so interesting how unstable you were in the girlfriends matter. Dating too many women, breaking up with them every two weeks or so; they were obviously not part of your priorities, John. Now, that's the kind of behavior you see on a man looking for a "one-night-stand", a man with a very ridiculous idea of independence who is afraid of commitment. As I said, John, you _are_ a man of commitment. If your relationships with these women didn't work it's evident you doubted yourself about how interested you were in them. The funny detail is that they all considered I was some sort of determining factor for the break-ups. The angry looks they gave to me… – Sherlock chuckled -. Oh, and let's not forget about Irene Adler…

- The Woman? – John's face went pale with a funny sort of rage at the mention of that name. Sherlock pretended to ignore him and kept talking.

- The first time we met her she was naked. Frustrating because I could read absolutely nothing about her. But let's focus; if you were the womanize wild bachelor your unstable relationships suggest, watching Irene Adler like that would have been christmas for you. Most men would've sat before her drooling pathetically, but not you, John. You were so uncomfortable you offered her a napkin to cover herself as an immediate reaction. A _napkin_, John – and finally, for the first time in the night, Sherlock looked right into John's eyes -. And of course let's add your fascinating display of jealousy twenty-six seconds ago at the very mention of her name because you obviously think I was attracted to her.

- And you weren't?

- I would hardly use "attraction" to define it. However, any sort of interest I had in her completely vanished long ago – Sherlock did a subtle, disdainful gesture with his hand to mark his words.

- How _long_ ago? – insisted a very jealous John.

- Are you really that concerned about my answer?

John closed his mouth and bit his tongue. My god, he was having such a gay reaction. Was he really that queer all of the time when he was around Sherlock?

And it was about to get worse, because after finishing his deduction Sherlock sat next to John on the sofa, fixing his eyes on him.

- If you want me to be honest… I still don't know what to say.

- And I already said all I had to say…

- This is uncomfortable – declared Sherlock, clearing his throat.

- You said it. You are the genius here – agreed John.

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Playing a silly game called "Let's look at everything but each other" they spent several minutes sitting in front of the other, trying to come up with something smart enough to be spoken. Sherlock had never had so much trouble with talking; usually the tricky part about him was getting him silent. He wondered what reason could it be that made him feel so… odd when around John Watson.

- John – he called, his voice was barely more than a whisper -, I wouldn't say that. I've never seen you as weak, and I certainly think you are not ordinary. You are anything but ordinary.

John gazed at Sherlock in disbelief, but he didn't have to be a genius to comprehend that the genius was being more honest than ever. He also noticed… Was Sherlock blushing? Did he even have the capacity to blush?

That was the detail that made John understand everything: how he ended up falling for his colleague and best friend. No matter how annoying, intellectual, cold or immature he could get to be. It was simple. It had always been.

"It's about time to accept it, John. He knows it already, so, who cares? What else could go wrong?"

Before he could seriously give a thought about it, John had already leaned forward to kiss Sherlock.

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_**Another** **note: **_Sha-la-lá-la-láa-la~ I feel like singing my happy heart out at that image: John and Sherlock kissing...

I wanted to write a more angry reaction from John, something like shouting and leaving the flat leaving Sherlock really confused behind, maybe hitting him or so... But that's probably what Gatiss and Moffat will be writing, so I just stuck to my original feeling of having Johnlock as soon as possible. I needed the love.

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Oh, an other detail: I'm pretty sure Harry is a lesbian, she was married to someone named Clara, who gave her the cell phone; so John has an alcoholic sister who recently divorced from a girl named Clara, right? (-Unnecessary, I know, but I so need someone to confirm that information to me-)

So, in my point of view, it all makes sense: John's sister is lesbian, why wouldn't he be gay?

Next chapter is the last.

**Review if you believe in Sherlock Holmes. :-)****  
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	3. What they wanted to do and never did

**"Wanted to and never did"**

A short story about Johnlock.

By: Sinattea.

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_Note:_ I wanted to update early today, but this puzzle got me obsessed, so I decided to finish that first. Yay for myself! It's the fastest I've ever solved a 500 pieces puzzle. But now, let's go to what matters. This is the last chapter, and is, honestly… so sweet it could cause someone diabetes (at least in my opinion, but don't take me too serious: I'm the opposite of "romantic" in real life, my standards are just weird). Fortunately I've got hypoglycemia, and I desperately needed the sugar when I wrote this, three weeks ago...

You now know how the spanish format I use works. No more warnings about that.

_Read, enjoy, review!_

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**Chapter 3: What they wanted to do and never did.**

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Sherlock was shocked and stupefied as he never thought he could be. He hadn't been surprised in a long time, and John had just knocked him off his certainties. The feeling was so… so… indescribable, actually. Someone as inexperienced as Sherlock in the matter of love could not define it, or understand it. Irene and Moriarty had been right to once call him "The virgin". Yet, although he knew nothing about love, he had liked John's kiss.

He and John locked eyes for a while.

- I have never…

- I know – said John, holding Sherlock's hand. An electrifying shiver shook Sherlock from head to toes. Their faces were less than two inches apart, and yet Sherlock didn't feel weird, on the contrary, he felt eager to close the distance between he and John at once.

- John?

- Yes?

- Do that again.

John Watson didn't need to be told twice. He kissed Sherlock for a second time, more passionate, more endearing. And he then kissed him again, and again…

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Maybe he'd wanted to do that for a long time, he just was in feral denial. As he kissed Sherlock, John couldn't help but run his hands through that curly black hair, ruffling it as he'd always felt tempted to do to tease his mate; of course now it wouldn't tease Sherlock at all. John also pulled him by the scarf to deepen the kiss, and Sherlock didn't oppose. John smiled against Sherlock's lips, because he could notice how his "friend" was frankly anxious: he didn't know what to do with his hands. John wondered for a second if that was really Sherlock's first "kiss", but he didn't have to think much, he knew the answer.

They separated at the same time to take some air and at the same time met their lips together once more. How nice, for the first time they were totally coordinated at something… Wait, it wasn't the first time; they've always shown a very special mental connection, they could understand each other perfectly without the need of words. The signs had always been there, although they were too stubborn to notice.

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Before both of them became aware of it, John was already pushing Sherlock gently on the bed, removing the scarf and the coat from their places. Gosh, Sherlock looked simply adorable with his messed up hair and his untidy shirt, and that habit of his of wearing tight pants… John recriminated himself for not recognizing his attraction earlier, he could have saved himself so much trouble with those women.

Nonetheless, when John removed his own jersey (Sherlock would never admit it, but he really liked John's old fashioned sweaters) the first doubt assaulted him.

- Are you sure you want to do this?

No matter how grown up or smart he was, Sherlock was still so childish when it came to some issues. His lack of knowledge in some basic areas of life made him almost innocent, and John didn't want to spoil that.

Sherlock Holmes, however, seemed to think differently.

- When have I ever doubted or regretted any decision? Prove you know me, John Watson.

Then it was Sherlock the one who kissed John, placing his hand at the back of his neck to keep him close. Adoring the initiative of his mate, John finally gathered the guts to slide his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth, and gosh how he enjoyed the surprise he found there. Apparently the excessive talking required by the science of deduction had given Sherlock an unsuspected skill worth to be shown off.

Whatever happened next in that room was something they both had needed for years but never dared to look for.

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Next morning Sherlock was the first to wake up, and he spent thirty minutes or so thinking of what happened last night and keeping the memories safe in a very special place at his mind palace (there was a special place in his mind palace!).

He never thought he'd come to share his blanket with anyone. And there he was, wrapped in the same white sheets, all naked, with John Watson.

At that moment John woke up and fixed his eyes on him.

- Well, that was…

- Brilliant, John. Brilliant! Now _that_ was christmas!

- You don't like christmas…

- I might like it from now on – Sherlock smiled. He _smiled_, genuinely and happily -. How could I ever get bored living in the same flat with you?

- Because we slept in different bedrooms – John couldn't help then but laugh, relieved. He'd loved last night, but knowing Sherlock as he did, there was always the fear that he might hasn't enjoyed it as much as him. After knowing he'd just redefined Sherlock Holmes' definition for christmas, he could relax.

- Of course, the bothersome difference between flatmate and roommate – Sherlock said, and giggled with him -. It's still strange, however. I spent thirty-six years of my life being asexual, remember?

- Thirty six? I spent forty-one years of mine being straight! – replied John, holding back his laughter.

- Thirty-nine – corrected Sherlock.

- What was that?

- Thirty-nine. We met two years ago: you spent only thirty-nine years of your life being straight – now Sherlock was not only smiling, but smirking, quite self-satisfied.

- What are you insinuating? – John imitated Sherlock's satisfaction smile.

- Nothing – he shrugged.

- Oh, I get it. You aren't insinuating, you are confessing your crime. I'm not gay, just as I said, you _made me_ gay.

- Yeah, sure, blame the genius, works all the time – Sherlock joked. John didn't even know he was capable of such a good mood. He felt proud of himself for achieving that goal with Sherlock.

- Works for me – John joked along.

They giggled together for a while, like they'd done plenty of times before. Next they simply held hands and went silent, each one dealing with his own emotions (because, yes, Sherlock Holmes _has_ emotions and John Watson just proved it).

They had many a thing to think about.

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"Love is a much more vicious motivator" Sherlock quoted himself in a whisper. At last he understood the true meaning of that phrase, the real depth of the words. Love as a motivator… He would kill for John Watson. He was ready to kill or die for him. He already had, in fact.

- I did it for you, you know? – Sherlock said suddenly - To fake my death.

- For me? Sherlock, if someone was getting any profit from your death I definitely wasn't that person – John started getting not angry, but raging -. If it's true you followed me then you know my world tore to pieces because of- - -

- He was going to kill you – interrupted Sherlock, avoiding John's look and focusing on the ceiling -. Moriarty was going to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, unless his paid assassins saw me jumping off that roof. He was going to kill _you_, John. I wasn't going to allow it.

- So you died in my place…? How…?

- I'll explain everything to you, in time; I was supposed to stay dead for a whole year at least. Molly helped, if you're curious.

"The swearing, John Watson, remember the swearing?!"

- Of course I'm curious! Moreover: I'm _furious_! A _year_?! Sherlock, for a whole month I have believed that you died before me and it nearly killed me off! How was I supposed to go on like that for a whole y- - -!

- I'm so sorry – Sherlock muttered, his face the legitimate personification of regret.

- Sherlock… – the unexpected apology softened John's heart, though he was still slightly irritated - If you have a plan, why don't you share it with me? Did you listen to the part of my speech about being a _team_? …Even after last night you won't trust me?

- I trust you! – affirmed Sherlock, turning over his left side to look at John - I'm trying to protect you! That's all I want.

There was something so honest and desperate in Sherlock's blue eyes that completely melted John's rage. Sherlock looked so vulnerable, so in need… Two seconds later he'd moved onward to softly press his lips against John's. The elder blonde man sighed.

- Remember last night Sherlock? I'm the _man_ in this relationship, I should be the one protecting you.

Sherlock's face turned unbelievably red and he drew back a few inches, his dignity profoundly wounded. John smiled, amused yet tender.

- It'll hurt tomorrow – mumbled Sherlock, reddening worse.

- We'll get you used to it.

- Really? Oh, yes – Sherlock reset himself in deduction-mode, grabbing John's wrist carefully -, look at those dilated pupils, your breathing has fastened and your pulse accelerated as well – his face then turned into a unique combination of suspicious frown and naughty grin -. John Watson, you really can't wait to do it again!

- Waited two years already, wasn't that enough?

Embracing each other they kissed passionately, Sherlock laying on his back and John on top of him, ravishing his mouth.

None of them had ever felt so alive.

.

Minutes later, when they were trying to decide whether to go out for breakfast or not (Sherlock would wear a disguise, of course), time came to converse about more imperative business.

- So – started John -, are you telling them? Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade? Are you showing yourself to them?

- Must wait for it to be adequate, John, as I told you – replied Sherlock, strangely apprehensive -. But I'm actually more worried about how are we going to tell them about _us_ when they find out I'm alive.

- Sherlock Holmes is worried about anything? – John grinned mischievously.

- Come on, John; don't pretend you don't know for sure everyone will immediately notice you aren't depressed anymore. And of course they'll notice as well you'll start dating someone.

- Will I? – John raised an eyebrow in the highest amusement.

- John, of course we are seeing each other again before time comes for me to return from the dead. Aren't we? – Sherlock sounded just a little bit insecure with the last question. John felt guilty with it, but he so enjoyed the lack of confidence in Sherlock's reaction; meant he needed him - Because if not I might stick to my original plan and leave London to travel around the world.

- Why didn't you do that in the first place?

- Because if I did I wouldn't be able to watch after you.

John couldn't help but smile: Sherlock cared for him. Coming from the consulting detective who considered people as nothing more than objects of occasional study, it meant a lot for him to say that about John.

- So… does this mean that we are _dating_ now? Are we together for real? – John asked.

Sherlock flushed violently one more time.

- Well… _if_ you want to…

- Sherlock, of course I want to! – John seemed to be almost offended by the doubt - I meant it. Everything I said at the cemetery, I meant it.

- Even the part when…?

- Yes, even that part, particularly that part – John straightened up and his eyes became the reflection of honesty -. I don't know why, Sherlock. I seriously don't understand how I came to this. I don't even know how anyone can find all the annoying things about you adorable, but I'm afraid I do. I mean it, Sherlock: I love you.

Now it was Sherlock's turn for his heart to melt, which was a whole new experience for him. He'd never felt the need to have anyone by his side, ever since he was child he could do just fine on his own. He was all of a loner, and he was okay with it. But when John came into his life, everything was so surprising. It was surprising how easy it was for Sherlock to blindly trust him so soon, how fast he started feeling that being accompanied was the right thing for him. It was surprising how swiftly he became fond of John Watson and how deep that feeling grew to be… It grew huge enough to become… love? Could the vast feeling inside of him be love? Being ready to sacrifice yourself for another person truly was love?

He had to find out.

- John… well… how do I say this? – Sherlock's voice had never sounded so weak and full of emotion - It's just… You know I'm not quite familiar with feelings.

- You are, you just delete it – was John's smiley reply. That somehow managed to make Sherlock feel a lot more comfortable with what he was about to do.

- May be, but still… – doing that typical reflexive gesture with his hands, Sherlock exhaled heavily, feeling vulnerable the most; but it was ok, because John was there to look after him, right? - John… I think I love you…

- Of course you do. That's all you do: you think too much – he joked.

John placed his right hand on Sherlock's face, caressing his cheekbones with his thumb. He adored Sherlock's cheekbones, the sharp features on his perfect-skinned face. Smiling gently, he then moved closer to Sherlock, as if he were going to kiss him, but stopped before their lips could touch.

Sherlock couldn't dissimulate the mild and sore shock that invaded him when John didn't properly kiss him. He was about to get upset; so far John had never denied anything to him, not when it came to daily life or work, and certainly not when it came to sex, even if they'd only tried it out once. But how could he ever get upset with John?

So he chose a different way of acting. Closing his eyes, he leaned in to be the one who locked lips with John.

That kiss tasted like glory.

John closed his eyes as well and automatically smiled. No matter what, publicly dead or secretly alive, publicly asexual or secretly gay, the fact was that Sherlock Holmes was now _his_. Sherlock _loved_ him. And all the things he always wanted to do but never did, were now going to happen.

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**_Note (_****_warning, it's a long one_**):

I can't believe how sickly romantic and corny I wrote this third chapter (diabetes!), and the end is soooo cheesy… but hey! We all need love, especially John and Sherlock…

I know they're OoC here, and I apologize. I was quite proud of myself because I sort of felt them IC in the first two chapters, but what can I say? The only way to write them as a couple and totally IC is to wait until season 3 and see if Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss (-Mycroft _is_ watching you-) and Steve Thompson decide to make the fans happy and keep going with the homosexuality allusions… or kidnap them and force them to write season 3 with John marrying Sherlock or something…

After all, if we wanted things to happen "by the book", we would _read_! But we are watching BBC instead. Now we want a modern adaptation of Sherlock Holmes in which he is openly dating Watson! So, yeah! Fanservice!

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And I believe it's not necessary to tell that all the time-line in here it's all made up. Shame on me, but this wasn't supposed to be a very exact fic, I just wanted to write something to make my fangirl-shipper heart happy after the dramatic season 2's finale.

The ages I used for Sherlock and John are actually the ages of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. Smile.

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**_And I want to deeply thank everyone who added to favorites, subscribed and reviewed._**

**_Special thanks to the reviewers, you made my day and I O U… a Smile!_**

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And one last thing: if you already spent valuable minutes of yours reading this fic, I believe you can afford to spend thirty extra seconds to write a review. I really want to know what you think, otherwise how am I supposed to improve my writing?

Reviews are the Sherlock to my John... or was it the other way around?

THANKS FOR READING!


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